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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29693448">Just Another Triple Word Score</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics'>pendragonfics</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Board Games, F/M, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Purple Prose, Scrabble, Secret Relationship, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Whump, gender neutral reader, they/them pronouns for reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:33:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,883</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29693448</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft meets you, remarking that he's a dab hand at Scrabble. Game on?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Reader, Mycroft Holmes/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Just Another Triple Word Score</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A request from Tumblr!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was three years ago, roughly. One of those days that came so rarely often, when the people of London had unsuspicious deaths and didn’t require as many autopsies, you and your co-worker Molly would find the time to play a game of Scrabble. It wasn’t a pretentious game, nor was it simply for the sake of fun. Nope. Neither you nor Molly was quite so good with your words when it came to the application of it in daily life. However, while translated into the tiles, those plastic faux-marble pieces that spelt out various dictionary approved words, both of you were practically highbrow. </p><p>It was good while it lasted, however. It was a particularly un-busy day – for the pair of you – and somewhat of a thrilling one for the outsiders. As always, pushing through the doors alike something stumbling in from the elements came Sherlock Holmes. The man was tall, with a pointed nose and narrow eyes, curled hair tossed about, and his coat-tails flying with every stride. With less of an entrance followed his friend, the shorter and humbler John Watson. While he was shorter than Holmes, the man, like any other, was prone to outbursts of pride. But none would compare to those of Holmes. </p><p>Oh. Today’s guests had brought a plus one along. </p><p>You had only heard of the man, but all signs pointed toward the newcomer being the eldest Holmes sibling. Dark auburn hair, thinning. Round face, narrow eyes and pointed nose, however, those features pointed not up but down. And from where he stood, that directed his gaze toward you. </p><p>“Molly!” Sherlock thundered, turning to your co-worker. “I’m looking for a man. Caucasian, blonde, medium build. A tattoo on his buttocks. Oh, and he’s dead.” </p><p>While she came to life following the instructions at hand, you stood to attention, to face the remaining men loitering before you. While Mr Watson had spared a polite smile before attending to his well-worn reporter’s notebook, the other man remained as he had. Quickly, you pushed the tiles to the centre of the board and awkwardly began to funnel them into the plastic sleeve they lived in. </p><p>“It’s excellent to see that the coroners of London continue the noble work that the city requires them for,” Mycroft Holmes spoke up. </p><p>You raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze. It would have appeared like you were an actor in a Bond movie. If you were, it would have seemed like something lithe or somewhat sexy, but there wasn’t anything much sexy to shoving the Scrabble paraphernalia beneath the bench.  </p><p>“I can hear the sarcasm in your voice, you know.” You retort, dusting off your white coat. “And even if you’re who Molly says you are, you can’t just come in here and insult us.” </p><p>“I apologise for this misunderstanding,” he stepped opposite you, on the other side of the bench. “My words were not intended as insults…I happen to think highly of those who can do such work as yourself and Ms Hooper.”</p><p>From the other side of the room, you heard a loud squelch, followed by a yelp. </p><p>“A-ha!” Sherlock exhaled. “The missing USB!”  </p><p>“I suppose we’re off, then?” John called to Sherlock. </p><p>The other man grunted in affirmation. The other Holmes – the one with the rounded edges and sharp eyes, not the public figure which current held a USB device that had been encased in decaying flesh not five minutes ago – curiously held your gaze. You sized him up, once more. However, this time when you gazed upon him, you tried to look further in, like he and his brother often did. He looked tired and a little damp from the weather.</p><p>“Perhaps I can make it up to you?” he inquired, leaning upon the curvature of his umbrella’s woodwork. “I’ve been told I’m rather good at Scrabble.” </p><p>“Are you boasting, Mr Holmes?” you pressed. </p><p>He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps coffee first, then?” </p><p>You felt a smile take over your face despite the prior feelings against the man. “You know how to contact me.” You glanced at the striding Sherlock and John and gave the trio a small wave for their goodbyes. “Good day, Mr Holmes.” </p><p>He nodded your way in return and tucked his umbrella beneath his shoulder. “Yes,” he agreed. “A good day indeed.”</p><hr/><p>In another time, much after the incident at the morgue, things had changed. Well, not all the way that one would imagine. England was still England, however, now separated from the entirety of Europe. The train that you took to work was the same, with the same graffiti on the side and gum stuck under the chair seats. </p><p>John Watson had gotten married to a lovely lady named Mary, and they were expecting a baby. Sherlock had had an affair with a threat to national security, as well as the usual substance abuse. Molly had moved on with her affections and taken to her latest hobby, knitting sweaters for premature babies in the hospital. </p><p>And you? Well. Despite the fanciful nature of it all, life was the same as ever. Yes, they had changed, but…it was the same, wasn’t it? You took the same train, used the same hair product, and though the fashioned had evolved, wore the same sort of clothes. The only difference was, really, was the boyfriend. </p><p>It was three years after the meeting. Four, if you count the fact you had met before he had properly noticed you when you had been at the same gala – something posh, a charity ball celebrating NHS workers and their dedication to society or something. But three. And despite all that time, there wasn’t much of a change between yourself and the handsome Mycroft Holmes. He visited your apartment whenever he had the time, with Anthea waiting with the car during any dalliances between yourselves. You had been to his penthouse twice, but that was after perhaps too much insistence on your behalf. There had been stolen kisses in hallways and many months between meetings and sometimes FaceTime dates that felt more morose than memorable. </p><p>But today, you sat on the shut lid of the toilet, your phone pressed close to your chest. The fading light from the window above the lavatory shed its dismal shade upon you, and you felt just as small as it. With every second passing, you felt more and more of your chest heave with the heaviness. Biting your lip, you held back a sob and leant against the wall. </p><p>“Darling,” Mycroft spoke through the door. “Please come out.” </p><p>You sniffled in retort, deigning him with no response. You remembered what he had said that day; it was something of a meet-cute. But now it was something horrible. What a bad first encounter. What a sham. </p><p>“_________...”</p><p>You heard a small thud. If you weren’t so devastated, you would imagine that Mycroft, as defeated as you are, had pressed his forehead to the wood in anguish. His tie would be pulled loose, the crisp white business shirt growing more and more dishevelled as he conformed less to proper posture. </p><p>“I don’t care if you have to pee,” you shake your head, clutching yourself just that little bit tighter, “I’m staying in here all night.” </p><p>“_________ – I don’t need the loo.” Mycroft remarked, and then, softer, he said, “it wasn’t like it was a complete fib.”</p><p>You felt your pulse quicken, a rush of heat rising to your face. You can’t help but remember the words he had said to you, the day you met; I’ve been told I’m rather good at Scrabble. “Oh-ho, but it was a fib!” you retort hotly. You jump from your perch upon the toilet lid and jab at the door between the pair of you with your index finger. “Before tonight, you’d never played Scrabble!” </p><p>There was a silence between the both of you. It was a thin door, the door that shielded the rest of your dingy apartment from the lavatory, but now, it felt like it was the thickest thing you had ever come across. Well, apart from the lie that Mycroft had kept for years. </p><p>“What else is there that’s a lie, Mycroft? Or is that even your real name?” </p><p>“_________,” he pleads. </p><p>There is a pause, a long, drawn-out, very much pregnant pause, which makes your heart shatter. A tear falls, but you wipe it aside, invested in the silence that speaks so sonorously. Then,</p><p>“My name is Mycroft. I’m the eldest in my family, and I work in the government. I like watching the rain roll over the countryside with a cup of tea, and I’ve always wanted a dog of my own but can’t care for one. And” his voice trembles at that word; a shaky exhale follows, as does the remainder of his confessionary words. “I’ve never had anyone to play Scrabble with – the truth is, growing up it was just for Mother and Father. And not a game for myself and Sherlock. I’m sorry I lied, it snowballed – and I didn’t mean to hurt you.” </p><p>Shakily, you place your phone into your pants pocket and exhale. There is another silence, this time, it is reigned by you. With every passing second, you can almost feel its grip tighter at your boyfriend’s heart. Slowly, you work at the lock beneath the doorknob, but find it sticky, not budging with your ministration. </p><p>“I see,” Mycroft says, tone flat. “I was perfectly reasonable –,” </p><p>You grasp for the knob, and with a wrenching motion that’s sure to involve the landlord in the next inspection, you fling the door open. He stands before you and looks the same as ever. But to your eyes, you can decipher it; he has changed too; Mycroft’s hair is messed, and there are bags below his eyes, and his lips are downturned brow set. </p><p>You reach for your boyfriend’s frame, the words tumbling from your lips. “No-no-no-no-no-no-no,” you protest. You throw yourself onto him and bury your head into his scent. He’s in his pyjamas, the second-string pair for when the pinstripes are in the laundry basket. The pair of you stand there, in each other’s arms, and breathless, you continue, “The lock – stuck – don’t –,” </p><p>You withdraw, looking to his dark eyes. “Don’t leave me over a silly Scrabble game.” </p><p>A small, wan smile tugs at the corner of his thin lips. “My dear _________...” he shakes his head and places a kiss upon your forehead. He lingers there, his breath warm against your skin. “I could never leave you. Especially not over a board game.” </p><p>A chuckle erupts from your chest at the remark. It’s incredibly mundane, the argument you just waged war over, but it was yours. A rare, vulnerable moment shared between two individuals who mightn’t ever have met if not for their mutual annoyance and his blogging best friend. At the thought of Sherlock, you withdraw from the proximity between yourself and Mycroft and look to him aghast. </p><p>“Let’s not tell Sherlock?” You ask Mycroft. If he got onto the idea of the pair of your domestic bliss…oh, the pain that would ensue!</p><p>He nods in agreement, looking quite austere despite being donned in a tee-shirt slapped with the likeness of the father of a children’s cartoon pig. “Agreed.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You can find me on Tumblr on as @chaotic--lovely, and if you want to request a fic, check out <a href="https://pendragonfics.tumblr.com/request_conditions">@pendragonfics</a>! ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿</p></blockquote></div></div>
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